


Ho'oponopono

by aries_taurus



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Caring Danny "Danno" Williams, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, ICU, Major Illness, Medical Jargon, Ohana, Organ Donation, Organ Transplantation, Rejection, Sick Steve McGarrett, Sickfic, Whump, vomit tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 22:07:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/pseuds/aries_taurus
Summary: "9-1-1, what's your emergency?""I... gh... I... need... Mgh... A...a..m...bu...lance," he pants out against the ever rising pressure in his chest."Sir? Did I hear you correctly? You need an ambulance?""Mh..Y... yh.. Ye..s.""All right. Are you in distress, sir? Can you tell me your name?""Mc..Garrett. S... Steve."





	Ho'oponopono

**Author's Note:**

> 1-WARNING  
**THIS WORK IS A WIP**
> 
> I fully intend to finish it but I have no timeline.
> 
> I needed to post something self-idulgent and my goto is Steve!Whump.
> 
> 2-This is graphic. Descriptive, medical whump, based on personal experience. Read at your own risk. Heed the tags
> 
> 3- THANK YOU SO SO much to BGHarison, my cheerleader, my friend, my partner in mental health.
> 
> 4- Title is a Hawaiian prayer for health and forgiveness.

* * *

Steve’s having breakfast with Grover at the Wailana when something under his sternum squeezes in pain. What first feels like some sort of stomach cramp spreads sideways under his ribs, then through his chest, all the way to his back, up his spine and into his shoulder blades.

The pain grows and sharpens weirdly and suddenly, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

He frowns with the intense ache, dropping his chin toward his chest to hide his grimace of discomfort. He sucks in a sharp breath and holds it but the piercing, intense spasm disappears after a minute, quick as it came.

“You okay there, chief?” Grover asks him with a curious, concerned look.

“Yeah, just... muscle spasm, I guess,” he says with a wince, rolling his shoulders. He took down a perp pretty hard... he glances at his watch, what? three hours ago? and yeah, maybe he’s feeling it a little. He’s not as young as he used to be, much as he hates to admit. They didn’t get a lot sleep in the last few days with their most recent case and the bad food and excessive amounts of coffee haven’t been exactly good for him. So maybe his body’s feeling a little... abused?

“Yeah, well, Williams was right. You too old to do those football style flyin’ tackles o’ yours,” the burly man in front of him drawls, leaning back in the booth, his brightly printed Hawaiian shirt a little too cheerful for Steve’s taste this morning.

Everything seems a little too bright today.

“It has nothing to do with age,” he argues back, “and do not, _do not_ start quoting Danny Williams at me when I’ve had less than eight hours of sleep in over four days,” Steve grumbles through a mouthful of pancakes, pointing his fork at Grover.

Lou throws his head back and laughs, till he’s crying, and Steve joins in, testament to how tired they are.

The bad guys may be caught, but they still have a full day ahead of them: interrogations, witness statements, paperwork... Tani and Junior are already doing the legwork, under Danny’s watchful supervision. Steve’s bringing blueberry pancakes with bacon as an agreed payment, with the really good Kona coffee, _not the crap blend, Steven_, as Danny requested, but he knows very well the protest is just bluster. Danny loves teaching the kids, as they privately refer to them. Grover’s taken Tani under his wing and he’s Junior’s de facto mentor, but Danny’s their _teacher_. Danny’s the one who’s showing them how it’s done, what police work is truly, really about and how to be detectives because neither he nor Grover are.

He’s a Navy SEAL and Lou is SWAT. They don’t have the instincts, nor the experience Danny has behind his shield. By now, Danny has solved close to 200 homicide cases in his career and there’s no one better to teach the two young guns the inner workings of the Justice system; how to make sure Five-0's collars turn into convictions and jail time, how to mesh their immunity and means to the letter of the law.

He’s about to tell Lou what his plan for the day is when the strange pain comes back but instead of going up into his shoulders, it slithers down into his gut, curdling into an uncomfortable, pressing need.

He stands, giving Grover an apologetic toss of his head. “Be right back. Gotta hit the head.”

He’d love to respond to Grover’s taunts about the convenient timing and the check but the cramps in his gut are bad enough that sweat is breaking out all over and are kind of cutting off his breath at the moment.

He’s starting to regret the convenience store hot dogs and vending machine burritos, as the cramps intensify, the sensation in his intestines suddenly turning watery and painfully urgent. He makes it to the restroom in just enough time to avoid disaster, and he spends an uncomfortable ten minutes there, arms crossed tightly over his rebelling innards, waves of chills and cold sweats chasing through him as he voids his suddenly temperamental bowels.

“YO! McGarrett! You in there?” Lou shouts into the restroom, startling him. “I paid the damn check. Your wallet’s safe so you can stop hiding! OH... Oh what the hell! You die in your own stink or what?”

He tries to answer but no sound comes out of his mouth on the first try. He clears his throat. “I’ll be out in a minute, Lou,” he shouts back, hating how wobbly his voice sounds.

“Uh, you sure you okay, man?”

“M’ fine. Just... maybe something I ate wasn’t so fresh....”

“Oh. Oh! Ooooh... I feel you. Just... Take your time. I’ll be... Uh... Reading the paper.”

It takes another long five minutes for the cramps to finally subside and for him to be able to leave the stall he’s been stuck in but he feels like hell. His undershirt and hair are damp with sweat, and he feels shaky and a bit woozy. He’s even more exhausted than before but whatever it was, it seems to be out of his system, at least for the time being.

Damn vending machine burritos.

He pauses by the sink to splash some water over his face. The reflection he sees in the mirror looks pale, sick. Grover seems to agree with that thought when he reaches the table.

“Uuugh, you’re not looking too good there, chief. You sure you all right?”

“I’m all right. Like I said. Just something I ate,” he says, feeling slightly better as time passes. “We should head back before Danny gets hangry.”

“Hmmm yeah, you got a point there,” Grover agrees.

* * *

He doesn’t _exactly_ run out of the rendition room. He makes it to the small, closet-like bathroom slash janitor’s closet in a nick of time though. He locks himself in and drops his pants quickly with a pained groan, his gut in an uproar. It’s a repeat performance of his earlier malaise at the coffee house but this time, the pain in his stomach and chest area lingers, making him think he’s managed to get food poisoning from whatever crap he ate in the last 48 hours, not just an upset gut.

When he’s finally finished, he exits the foul-smelling room, completely unsurprised to find Danny waiting for him, leaning against the opposing wall. He’s sweaty and lightheaded and if he’s honest, he feels like absolute crap, so he leans on the wall across Danny and gives him the cheekiest smile he can, raising his eyebrows.

“You’re stalking me, now, Danno? The bathroom’s taking it a little far, don’t you think?”

“You know, babe, you’re much scarier when you don’t run out in the middle of an interrogation,” Danny says, eyebrows high, arms and ankles crossed.

“Yeah well, that may be, but I prefer not to crap my pants,” he huffs, rubbing a hand over his aching stomach. He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes as he feels fresh sweat break out all over.

“Yeah. Lou said you weren’t feeling so hot at breakfast and you’re looking whiter than my shirt.”

Steve rolls his eyes but he does allow himself to deflate a little bit, shoving off the wall. “It’s just the shits, Danny. I’m not dying,” he says, walking back towards the rendition room. “C’mon, let’s finish this.”

“Oh, actually no. He talked while you were dumping your toxic waste, so we don’t need to go back there. Instead, you can go back to your office,” Danny calls out behind him.

“Really.”

“Yeah. Apparently, telling him you’d gotten fed up and went to get your torture implements loosened his tongue.”

“So everything’s done?” Steve asks, giving Danny a hopeful, wide-eyed look.

“Everything but the crying. And the kids can do the paperwork, so even that’s done. You can go back to your office and pretend to work, or actually go home and go have the shits in your own bathroom.”

Steve gives Danny the mother of all eyerolls but... he’s not wrong.

He coordinates the last of the odds and ends of the case and fifteen minutes later he’s on his way home. The pain in his stomach is slowly getting worse again, until it turns into a sharp cramp that spears through his back, just like he had this morning at the Wailana, only this time, the sensation that crawls up his throat isn’t pain.

It’s sudden, overwhelming nausea.

He hasn’t even made it out of the parking lot when he has to hastily pulls the truck over. He throws the door open and he doesn’t even have time to undo his seatbelt, just barely enough to lean out of his seat, before he’s throwing up his pancake breakfast in full view of the passing traffic.

God, he hates puking.

He spews up wave after wave after wave until there’s nothing left inside him, but it just won’t _stop._

He curses, coughs and spits out the remnants and saliva flooding his mouth as his emptied stomach clenches again. It _hurts_. He spends a couple more minutes heaving up bile and a whole lot of nothing on the edge of the Palace’s lot before the nausea passes, but the pain in his stomach doesn’t quite go away, tendrils extending into his back, neck, jaw and shoulders.

He hangs on to the open door for another minute, just breathing, before he sits up and wipes his mouth, nose and the reflex tears out of his eyes. Food poisoning positively sucks. He blows out a long breath and closes his eyes, letting his head fall against the headrest.

He rests for a minute but the smell of fresh vomit on hot asphalt is wanting to reawaken the nausea so he figures he should get himself home. He pulls his door shut and gets on the road, hoping he’ll start feeling better now that he’s thrown up.

By the time he gets home, the only thing he feels is exhausted, but the pain in his stomach seems to have died down. He heads straight for the kitchen and a glass of water, which he drinks in slow, careful sips.

He refills it and takes it up to his bedroom, puts away his gun and he changes into sleep clothes. Wearily, he sits on the side of the bed, letting his chin drop to his chest. It’s barely 11 A.M. and he’s going to bed. He groans in misery. God, when did he get so old?

To be fair, he hasn’t really slept in three days and he’s sick. He needs rest. He drinks the second glass of water a little faster than the first and just as he’s about to lie down, the lingering pain in his stomach grows into a hot, gnawing ball that migrates down and once it reaches his navel, he feels his bowels turn painfully watery again.

He stumbles to his en-suite bathroom with one hand clutching at his cramping, writhing innards. At least Danny was right about one thing; here, he’s at least got privacy.

He’s damned grateful for that privacy when a sudden wave of nausea rushes through him and before he can do anything, he’s puking the water he just drank as he’s still sitting on the damn toilet, right between his feet, right onto the sleep pants around his ankles.

Well _fuck. _

At least he won’t have to mop up the floor too much, he thinks sarcastically just before he pukes again.

When he’s finished cleaning the mess and showered, he shuffles back to bed, the bathroom waste basket in his hand. He puts it on the floor by the bed, within easy reach before dropping face down on the bed.

This day officially _sucks._

* * *

After that, he sleeps for most of the afternoon. He wakes up around five for another round of diarrhea but it’s not as bad, possibly because there’s nothing left in him. His stomach and abdomen hurt and he feels like roadkill. He’s too nauseous to even try and drink a sip of water. Hell, swallowing his own spit makes him want to throw up.

He just drags his sweat-drenched, feverish, shivering body back to bed and goes right back to sleep.

* * *

_Pain_.

Steve jerks awake, his right hand clutching at his chest, pressing against his sternum. The deep, stabbing, incredibly violent, grapefruit-sized knot of pain in his chest jolts him from a deep, dreamless sleep.

It’s the same pain he’s been having all day but multiplied by a hundred-fifty.

He struggles to sit up on the side of the bed, trying to breathe through it but it keeps on growing, spreading through his back, down through his ribcage and suddenly he can't breathe so well. He doesn't quite know why he notices the time on the clock, but it’s like the digits 3:21 glowing on the display are a bad omen, as if the next number is zero, like the zero amount of air he seems to be able to breathe.

He grunts breathlessly, as the pain grows and grows, spreading through his chest and back up into his neck. He digs the heel of his palm over the most painful spot, trying vainly to draw air into his stiff, uncooperative lungs. The pain keeps spreading further trough his frame, into his shoulders and down both his arms.

He doesn't understand what's happening. Where the hell is this coming from? Is he having a heart attack? He doesn't even have high blood pressure or cholesterol or... anything... Complications form the transplant aren't supposed to cause this kind of pain, are they?

No, he was wrong earlier. This definitely is NOT the pain he was having earlier. No. This is much, much more violent. A thousand times so.

He tries to inhale but the pain spikes impossibly higher, the pressure in his chest growing ever tighter. It's like it’s being crushed in an excruciatingly tight vise. He can't hold back another strangled cry when the vise tightens again. He can’t breathe, can't force air into his paralyzed chest and he can’t feel his forearms, the pain reaching all the way up into his jaw. His vision blurs and for a second, he's sure he's going to pass out.

He needs medical help. For once, he doesn't wonder or question the need or urgency of it. He needs to call an ambulance. Now.

He reaches a hand towards the nightstand where his cell lies next to his badge, tries to grab his phone but it slips from his numb, nerveless fingers. It clatters to the floor and slides under the dresser, a few feet away.

He closes his eyes in defeat as he tries to draw another breath through the tightness and pain squeezing his chest.

He tries to stand to retrieve the phone, keeping a hand on the nightstand to steady himself, the other still pressed over his sternum but he collapses to the floor in a heap, his legs too weak and shaky to carry him. The world goes black for a second but he thankfully doesn't pass out.

He ends up on the floor, huddled against the bed, head resting against the side of the mattress, legs folded under him.

The pain is almost unbearable, whiting everything out for a few seconds and he’s lost, between the white pain and the blackness. He's doing his best to stay calm, trying to breathe through it but he's really starting to wonder if he even has time to call that ambulance of if they're gonna be too late, if his heart is going to stop or explode before it arrives.

He lifts his head up, blinks to clear his vision and spots his phone, a few feet away from his left hand.

He slides down the side of the bed till he’s lying on the floor to reach it. As soon as his fingers close over the plastic he crawls back towards his bed and leans against the frame, breathing in uneven, trembling gasps.

He dials 9-1-1 before lifting the phone to his ear, praying he doesn't pass out before the call connects.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"I... gh... I... need... Mgh... A...a..m...bu...lance," he pants out against the ever rising pressure in his chest.

"Sir? Did I hear you correctly? You need an ambulance?"

"Mh..Y... yh.. Ye..s."

"All right. Are you in distress, sir? Can you tell me your name?"

"Mc..Garrett. S... Steve-nh. Gh.. Can't... Can't... br... breathe... Ch... Chest... pain," he puffs out weakly.

"Okay, Steven. You're having chest pain and trouble breathing?"

"Y.. Ghh... yeah." He groans, the pain spiking.

"Okay. I'm sending an ambulance to your location. I'm seeing that you're calling from 2727 Piikoi Street, is that your address?"

"Yh.. Yes."

"Okay, stay calm and try to breathe slowly and evenly, all right? Ambulance is five min... Commander McGarrett? Is this Commander Steven McGarrett, Five-O?"

"Y.... yh....yeah."

"Sir, do you require HPD assistance?"

"N... nh..no, just... med... Mgh... me med..d...ical... emer...gency."

"All right sir. Paramedics are four minutes out. Can you tell me where you are in your residence?"

"Mm b...aArh!" The vise crushes his chest and black spots cover his vision. His arms go numb and the phone falls from his ear. He sags against the bed, feeling sweat bead all over his body while numbness spreads through his arms and legs.

"Sir? Sir! Can you hear me?"

He can hear the tinny voice emanating from his phone’s speaker on the floor, but he can’t reach it.

"M' here," he whispers, but he's pretty sure his voice isn't strong enough to carry to the phone.

"Three minutes, Steven. Just hold on."

"Okay," he breathes. "Aaagh," he gasps," pressing his head against the side of the bed as the pain spikes again. He tries to concentrate on breathing, but his chest is too tight. He can't draw in any air.

"Just two minutes now."

Too long.

He's starting to think he's dying, for real this time. No last-minute rescue, no cavalry. And... A heart attack? He's... 41! This can't really be happening!

He tries to breathe in but pain spears through his throat, up into his jaw and he cries out, just as someone bangs on the front door.

There's noise downstairs, shouts, pounding feet and a second later, the door of his bedroom bangs open.

Two guys, paramedics, are in front of him an instant later, hands all over him, asking questions he doesn't have the breath to answer. They want to know his name, his age, if he took something. He manages to shake his head and whisper his name, lifts a hand towards the nightstand where his wallet is resting, next to his badge.

They must find it because they start calling him Commander.

They move him to lie him flat on the floor and he flops like a ragdoll. They cut off his shirt and stick a bunch of electrodes to his chest, a BP cuff on his arm, a pulse-oximeter clip to his finger.

He hears things like hypotensive and tachycardic but he can't talk through the unbearable pain.

There's a burning sting on his right hand, and another, and another, then one higher on his arm. Something cold floods his veins and the world moves and shifts around him.

He closes his eyes against the ever-growing tightness in his chest, the pain spearing through his back like he's being impaled by a two-by-four. There are suddenly more people around him and he's jostled and rolled to his side and back and there's something on his face. He lets out a panicked cry but a voice in his ear says oxygen mask and yeah, he can breathe a little better even if the pain isn't letting up.

He can't hold in a gasp of pain when the vise around his chest twist as they start moving him.

There's a siren wailing in his ears and a sensation of harsh light through his closed lids, a feeling of jostling, nausea-inducing, constant motion. Voices speak all around him but he can't focus past the pain and the breath-robbing, crushing pressure. They talk to him, ask things, tell him things but he can’t grasp any of it.

He knows he's made it to the hospital. His brain knows it but awareness is... distant, muted, warped. He heard the word 'Doctor' a few times, but he just can't...

Th gurney he's on tilts backwards and there's another series of burning stings, on his left hand this time, and another few on his right arm. He feels like he’s freefalling, jolted, twisted, like he’s on a roller-coaster.

More cold seeps into his veins but he goes suddenly hot, a strong wave of dizziness washing over him.

Miraculously, the pain starts to ease and the vise crushing his chest loosens. He sucks in a greedy breath and exhales, the tension falling from his entire frame.

"Commander McGarrett? Steve? Can you open your eyes?"

He forces his lids apart, blinking against the harsh lighting. There's a blonde head leaning over him, a woman in green scrubs. He sucks in a breath and it’s like coming up from a dive, like breaching the surface. Reality reasserts itself, snaps back in place suddenly, and the contact is jarring.

"There you are. I'm Doctor Annie Watson. You're at Trippler. You with us?"

"Yeah," he huffs, eyes darting around the room. There are people in scrubs everywhere, medical equipment all around. He’s in a trauma bay.

"Your blood pressure is stabilizing. We gave you a bolus of fluids, some pressors and something for the pain. How is it now, one to ten?"

He blinks, thinks about the agony he was in a minute ago. "F...f.. Four."

"Okay, that's good. We did an EKG and I want to reassure you right away; it's not your heart, all right?"

He blinks and gives her a small nod.

"Okay, so now we just have to figure out what's wrong. We took some blood, so we'll see what that says, but can you tell me exactly what happened tonight?"

He swallows and licks his lips while she lifts the oxygen mask off his face so she can hear him better.

"Pain... woke me up. Here," he says, dragging a heavy hand to the lower edge of his sternum and running it along his ribs to the right. "Goes into my back, between my... my shoulder... blades... it's... it's agh... coming back....Aaaaagh!" he groans, low in his throat, but he can’t keep it in, it hurts so bad.

"Push 1 mg Dilaudid IV, Joan, please."

There's more talk above him but it's lost in a haze of pain. He can't hold onto the groans and cries that escape him. God, it hurts. Hurts more than any bullet he's ever taken.

Something hot climbs up his arm and up his neck and he's suddenly very, very dizzy, lightheaded and extremely nauseous.

"M.. M' gna be sick," he mumbles behind the oxygen mask. He lifts a hand up to push the thing off his face as he tries to turn to his side but he barely has time to lift his head up before his stomach rebels.

Suddenly there are a bunch of hands all over him. They roll him to his side but it’s a bit too late, vomit soaking both the front of his gown and the gurney.

Regardless, someone sticks a basin in front of his face to catch the rest of the mess.

There's nothing he can do to stop the deep, forceful retches emptying his stomach into the ugly pink plastic pan the big, soft-spoken Hawaiian nurse is holding under him. He can barely breathe in between spasms, the intense efforts making his eyes water. He coughs and spits out the sour remnants out of his throat and mouth, desperately trying to breathe but his stomach is intent on crawling its way up next.

He feels another rush of cold flooding up the vein in his arm and in the next minute, the infernal nausea starts to recede. He lets his head fall back to the gurney, completely exhausted. He shivers as sweat cools all over his body, the vomit-soaked gown heavy and wet on his skin.

The pain in his chest is still present, radiating in his back, up his neck and into his jaw, but it’s muted, distant. There are voices around him, hands touching him, moving him, but he can’t open his eyes through the heavy black haze clouding his brain. His head feels heavy, aching. He shivers, cold, all the way to his bones.

He’s tired. He wants to sleep.

“Commander, open your eyes!” someone says loudly.

He groans in pain, eyes snapping open when someone’s knuckles rub his sternum, hard.

“You need to stay awake, okay?”

“’K’ay,” he mutters, behind the oxygen mask. “S’ wrong w’ me? S’nt food pois’ning?” he asks, forcing his eyes to stay open.

“Food poisoning? You’ve been sick today? Throwing up? Diarrhea? That kind of thing?”

“Mm.. Tha.... S’wrong?” he mumbles, nodding.

“We don’t know yet. Tell me if this hurts okay?”

Hands move all over his chest and abdomen, pressing gently everywhere. He can’t hold back a groan when the probing fingers press midway between his ribs and bellybutton.

“Abdomen’s rigid and guarded. Let’s get an ultrasound, stat, please! Okay, Commander, I know you had a liver transplant about two years ago. You taking your anti-rejection meds like you’re supposed to?”

“Hm... y... yeah.... ooh.... gh... hurts.... Aaaah,” he gasps as the pain sharpens and flares over the blanket of painkillers.

“Push some more Dilaudid. Okay, okay Steve, I think you may have pancreatitis from the pain you’re having but something might be up with the graft. Your liver feels enlarged so we’ll run some tests real quick, okay? We’re gonna give you something more for the pain, try and keep it under control while we figure out what’s going on, okay?”

“Okay,” he breathes, too many things going on around him for him to follow. There are hands all over him again, cold gel on his abdomen, pressure, something hard pushing down harshly on his belly, hurting. He groans with it, tries to move away from the pain but someone holds him still.

Someone is talking to him but he can’t follow, more cold heat flooding his veins, clouding his head.

He gasps and groans in pain, can’t... lock it down, can’t find his control through. The pain meds kick in and he loses the thread, loses time.

When he opens his eyes again, there’s a white-bloused arm in his field of vision, a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, finds the doctor’s face and he knows it’s bad because her expression is grim.

“Doc. Wha’s... goin..n?” he mumbles.

“I’ve got some of your test results. How’s the pain?”

“S’okay. What’s... wrong with... me?”

“Preliminary blood tests show you have pretty significant pancreatitis and elevation of some of your liver function tests and your C proteins are extremely elevated. Look, Commander, I don’t have to explain that it’s bad in your case, extremely serious. It likely means you’re in the early stages of rejecting your graft. We’re transferring you to the ICU. Right away, to start treatment.”

“Wh... what?”

“You’re very, very sick, Commander. Bottom line? Your liver’s starting to fail and the inflammation in your liver has spread to your pancreas. We haven’t found out why yet, but we need to reverse this, now. Pancreatits on its own can be deadly but with your liver failing…”

“What… What are you saying?”

“I’ll be blunt. If we can’t reverse the acute liver failure, you’ll need a new liver within the next week, if the pancreatitis doesn’t kill you first.”

Steve lets his head fall back, swallows, lets the blow sink in. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s... shocked. In shock.

“Wh... Okay... I... Okay.”

“I know this is a lot to take in but it’s good that you called the ambulance when you did. Is there anyone we can call for you?”

He doesn’t even think. “Danny... Detective Danny Williams.”

* * *

His phone is ringing.

Correction.

His phone is ringing, and it is still _dark._

That is never good.

He liberates an arm from under his body, snakes it out from under the blankets and grabs the offending ringing device and presses the ‘Accept’ icon without really looking at the display.

“Detective Williams,” he mumbles into it, somewhat audibly, at least he hopes so.

“Hello? Is this Detective Danny Williams?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Yes, hello, this is Kailani Makekao at Tripler Army Medical Center? We’ve just admitted a Commander Steven McGarrett and he’s requested we contact you?”

Danny opens his eyes, raises himself to his elbows, takes the phone off his ear and blinks stupidly at it a couple times.

“Uh, I’m sorry what?”

“This is--”

“No, I heard you, sorry so, you admitted Commander McGarret to the ER?”

“No. He was initially brought in by ambulance just under two hours ago but he’s currently being transferred to the ICU.”

“What! The IC- Why?”

“I’m sorry, Detective, I’m not at liberty to divulge any medical information over the phone but the Commander did request your presence. I’m sure his attending physician or nurse will be able to answer any questions you may have.”

* * *

He gets lost in a haze of drugged confusion. He knows they move him. He’s aware of a hellish elevator ride that makes him vomit again, of corridors, noise, needles in his arms, hands, neck... There are hands touching him everywhere, his arms, his chest, his legs, his thigh, higher!—No. Not that, ever! Never. He wrenches his arm free, swings it, hits something, swings again, shouting with a breath he doesn’t have, trying to get off the bed, pulling at wires, lines, anything he can reach.

“NO! NO! STOP! STOP!!”

There’s a cacophony of shouts, screaming machines, and suddenly all the hands are gone and he feels heavy, woozy, the room spinning around him. He crashes to the bed, breathing hard, but no one comes close. He just lies there, panting, eyes darting around the room, trying to... wait... this... where is he? This isn’t...

Why were they... This is a hospital room...

“Commander McGarrett? Steve? Can you hear me?”

He looks to his left and there’s a small woman with red hair by the door, with a yellow mesh gown and purple gloves. She smiles a little.

“Hi. I’m Olivia. I’m your day nurse. I’m sorry we scared you. Do you know where you are?”

He blinks and looks around. “I... hospital.”

“Yes. Do you remember why you’re here?” she asks.

He swallows, eyes roaming around the room. Why? He’s... sick. His liver. Pancreas... Not... he got... confused for a minute. “My liver,” he breathes. “Pancreas,” he groans, as the by now familiar pain in his stomach and abdomen starts to grow again.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you what we were doing and that my colleague touched you without asking permission. That won’t happen again, Commander.”

“Steve.”

“All right Steve. You can call me Oli, all right?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, Steve. Again, I’m sorry about someone toughing your genitals without permission and without telling you. We should have explained that you need a Foley catheter so we can monitor your urine output and your kidney function, and because of the pancreatitis, we’re going to be giving you very large amounts of fluids, and right now, you’re not in a condition to get up and go to the bathroom every half hour or so on your own. Is it okay if I put in the Foley? It’s going to be just me.”

Steve nods minutely, closing his eyes. “S’okay.”

“All right. It might be a little uncomfortable but it shouldn’t hurt. If it does, tell me right away.”

Oli the kind nurse pulls the curtain around the bed closed and sets to work, ignoring the IV lines and monitor leads he ripped off, all the fluids and meds pooling on the floor because he freaked out. He feels her gentle hands pull up his gown and put her gloved hand on his penis.

“M’ sorry I freaked out. Bout the mess,” he mumbles, to distract himself for her actions. He hisses when she swabs cold betadine over his most sensitive areas. It’s cold. He grits his teeth when the catheter goes it and ties not to move when he feels it slipping along his urethra.

“It’s okay. Like I said, We’re the ones that did wrong. We treated you like an unconscious patient and you’re not. I’m sorry. We’ll get this taken care of and I’ll fix the rest,” Olivia says as she carefully places some tape along his thigh and smoothes his gown back in place. “You’re my job today, so don’t worry about it. And don’t feel so bad. Elevated liver enzymes in the blood can cause some mental confusion, add some heavy doses of opiates... I’ve read your medical file. I know you’ve been through some pretty traumatic stuff. You deserve to be treated with kindness and dignity, especially from the people who are supposed to care for you.”

“I’m... your job?” he asks, frowning as the room spins and sways like he’s on a surf-tossed raft. The pain in his guts and the sensation of motion makes nausea wash over him like a warm, humid wave, his mouth filling with spit he swallows thickly.

“You are,” she answers, keeping her eyes on her work. “ICU nurses have a maximum of two patients and you’re my only one for now. There. Done. Now, let’s get that mess sorted out.”

“Hmm,” he mutters, gulping queasily.

Once she’s finished, he’s got three different IV lines going, he’s in a clean, dry bed, and he’s got more wires and leads attached than he knew could be put on a human body.

“You comfortable?”

God, he’s so tired. “Tired. Sick.”

“You mean nauseous?”

He gives her a small nod, trying to move as little as possible.

“Right. We’ll give you something extra for nausea. Give it about five minutes. You have a Detective Williams requesting to visit? You feel up to it?”

“Need to... talk to him.”

The nausea crests, thick at the back of his throat.

“You can sleep. Your friend Danny’s in the waiting room. Visiting hours are between the hour and quarter hour so I’ll take him in when he can see you, okay? Anyone else you want to be able to visit?”

He pants, trying to push back the urge to throw up as it builds. “My sister. Mary-Anne. My Team. Danny... knows the names... F... M’ gonna throw up,” he chokes out desperately, lifting his head up from the pillow, but it’s too late to do any good, his stomach already clenching hard.

By some miracle, Olivia gets a blue plastic basin under his chin in time to catch the glob of bilious mucus that follows the harsh, sour belch that erupts out of him.

He groans, long and miserable and sick, drooling into the plastic, until more bile burns up his throat and gushes out, over and over again, until he’s reduced to helpless, never-ending dry heaves.

Through the awful, miserable experience, he hears Olivia’s voice, asking a colleague to call for an attending.

By the time the attending physician finds an anti-emetic that works, he’s drenched in sweat and trembling with exhaustion and pain.

“I just gave you something for the pain,” Olivia tells him as she wipes his face with a cool, clean washcloth. “Doctor Kendrick ordered an NG tube. It’ll drain the secretions from your stomach and that’ll help with the nausea, till you’re better.”

He doesn’t have the energy to answer. He lets his eyes slip closed and just breathes, shivering with chills and the perpetual pain the drugs can’t touch. He can’t think past the awful sensations in his body; the perpetual nausea, pain, vertigo, sense of confusion and he suddenly wonders if this is what dying feels like. He’s not afraid. All he wants is relief, an end to this horrendous hell he’s stuck in. Torture is a pure kind of physical pain, one that comes at him from the outside, from a direction he can focus on but this all-out assault from every possible direction from within is something he doesn’t know how to handle.

Olivia is back with a soft hand on his shoulder, and another nurse to put in the naso-gastric drain. The exercise is a torture all its own and it leaves him even weaker. He doesn’t have the energy left to even lift his arms when the two nurses swap his vomit-stained gown for a fresh, clean one.

“Steve? I need you to open your eyes for me, okay?”

“M’ tired.”

“I know, but I need to look at your eyes.”

Something rubs on his arm, hard. He forces his lids to part, finds Olivia by his bed. “’Livia.”

“Yeah. Look, it’s visiting hours, but I don’t think you’re up to seeing anyone right now. I’m going to tell you friend Danny to come back later today. But do you want me to tell him what’s going on with you?”

“S’okay, tell’m... but... Wanna see him.”

“You’re too weak for visitors, right now.”

“I need to... talk to him. Not long. Please.”

“Okay. Five minutes.”

He wants to nod, but he’s not sure he manages to move. He can only breathe, stuck in his bubble of misery, till he feels a familiar hand rub on his arm.

“Babe, I can’t leave you alone for _five minutes. _Seriously.”

“Danny,” he breathes. He wants to open his eyes but his lids are too heavy.

“Yeah, I'm here. Doc told me what was going on. How you feeling?”

He breathes for long a second, another. “Think... M’… Dying... Danny.”

“No, no, don’t say that. Doc said you can beat this, and if not, my liver’s grown back, I can give you another bit.”

He fights the deep lethargy, forces open his eyes and finds Danny’s, holding his gaze.

“No. Can’t... Not the same... Ask... the doc.” He can’t keep his eyes open any longer, lets his head drop against his pillow. “Danny... I... Mary. She... I don’t... want... No. Don’t… let her.”

“You don’t want Mary to donate part of her liver to you of you need one, is that what you’re trying to say?”

He nods weakly. “She... Joan. She needs her.” 

“Babe. We’re not there yet…”

“Danny,” he says, as strongly as he can, forcing his eyes open to look at his partner.

“Okay. Okay. I won’t let her. But… you want me to get her here… in case you…”

He lets his eyes slip closed, nodding against his pillow. “Please. M’sorry Danno.”

“Don’t… Steve… Don’t give up, okay? And don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Detective. He needs to rest.”

“Steve, I gotta go. I’ll be back, okay?”

“Love ya, Danno,” Steve forces himself to say.

“Love you too, babe.”

He lets himself slip under the haze of drugs, and hopes he makes it back out again, hopes this wasn’t his last goodbye to Danny.

TBC...

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone, for reading.
> 
> Please, review and let me know what you think. My mental health is.... rough these days and I could use some encouragement.
> 
> More to come... eventually


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